garden flowers, bed of thorns
by reallyhatebananas
Summary: She didn't mean to fall, but was unable to stop herself – not when her sister came to her with darkness marring her pale skin. Such was life when one was of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. ::Bella/Cissa, a romance::


**A/N:** I am extremely intrigued by the Bellatrix/Narcissa sister relationship – but this was written for the 34 Challenge/Story/I've-Kind-Of-Forgotten-The-Title Contest. So it must include romance. Heh. And, as usual, this is un-Beta'd.

**WARNING:** This story contains both femmeslash and incest, as well as mentions of abuse – they aren't graphic, but still consider yourself warned.

Oh, also, this story was heavily influenced by a drawing over at DeviantART. This is the link:

comfortablylaura (period) deviantart (period) com/art/Little-Sister-22965888

Without the spaces, of course. And I really would advise you to check out the picture, because it's _gorgeous_.

**Disclaimer: **

"They do not call me Tom these days. They call me She-Who-Does-Not-Own."

"And yet, I am afraid that my students will forever remain as such in my mind, Tom. Such is the curse of old age."

"Well, in that case… _Avada Kedavra!"_

/don't ask. Just don't.

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Bellatrix had always had a most peculiar sense of probity. She believed far more stoutly than even her parents in the family dictum – _tojours pur_, indeed – and yet her obsession with blood purity did not extend to other types of perfection – ethics, standing, and the like.

She did not care about the spotlessness of her skin – unlike her sister's lily-white – and there was the difference between them.

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The first time it happened Narcissa was five years old, her sister nine. The girls were sequestered in the second drawing room of the manor, hidden from the guests chatting away downstairs. They were under firm instructions to not come out – or draw attention to themselves – until the gathering of prestigious witches and wizards had dispersed.

Bellatrix had never liked being hidden away.

"Bella," the young blonde hissed, tugging on her sister's skirt. "Bella, you mustn't – they'll hear, and what'll Mum and Dad do then?"

Bella Black – still so innocent, so _pure_ – smiled, dark curls settling as she sat back on the chaise longue*. She ran one hand over the mussed silk of her dress. "Can't you hear them, Cissa? Talking – I'm curious! What're they talking about, d'you think?"

The girls had spent the day being tutored – as per their usual schedule – but Andromeda had been taken to celebrate her eighth birthday elsewhere, escorted by their uncle Lord Alphard Black. She'd been gone since daybreak, and their parents had taken the opportunity to hold a social gathering in her absence. It seemed they believed that two young witches would have an easier time staying quiet than three – silly, really, for Andy had always been the mediating one. Bellatrix and Narcissa were too different and yet similar – an explosive combination – to get along without her.

"I dunno… 'dult matters, I suppose." Narcissa waved one hand vaguely as she spoke, relieved that her sister had ceased her clambering about the room like a wild beast. "Nothing that concerns us – Bella?"

Bellatrix had slipped from the settee onto the stone floor where she now laid, lush red gown spread about her like some sort of bizarre halo. "Come along, Cissy – it's nice and cool down here."

The mansion tended to become overheated in the summer days, especially during an influx of inhabitants like tonight's.

Narcissa smiled, grateful to her sister for playing nice for once – without the airs she was wont to assume these days – and curled up next to her like a cat.

"Mind the dress, now," Bellatrix instructed, voice suddenly sharpening as it did whenever she was reminded of her status as the elder, "you don't want to muss the lace, Cissy, Mum'll be furious."

Narcissa nodded and smoothed out her skirts, burrowing into her sister's side. Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the voices floating up the stairs.

"Bella?"

"Mmm?"

"What's that on your arm?" Narcissa sat up as she spoke, pulling back her sister's sleeve to expose a livid bruise. Bellatrix scowled, pulling herself up back onto the couch.

"I banged myself – there, see? On that corner – "

The younger girl looked up at her sister with an expression of innocent confusion. "Then why didn't you ask Mum or Daddy to heal it?"

"I didn't – get the chance."

Cissa frowned before climbing onto the futon herself, reaching for her sister's hand. "Really?"

"No." The brunette looked down, a rare flush suffusing her face. "Daddy did it."

"He hit you?" Narcissa asked, still struggling to understand.

Bellatrix shook her head once, whispering, "No – he said – he said I'm not pretty. But he likes dark-haired girls – he says – he fancies me anyway, and – "

She broke off, turning away to wipe her face on the upholstery.

Narcissa, far too young to understand the implications of her sister's words, smiled. "'s all right, Trixie. I think you're pretty." She leaned over to press a kiss to the bruise.

That was the first time darkness marred Bellatrix Black's fair skin, but it wouldn't be the last.

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The second time was years later: Narcissa's first night at Hogwarts. She had been Sorted into Slytherin – it was no surprise, really, though definitely a relief – and had not been disappointed by the lavish decorations and regal colouring of the dungeons. They reminded her of home.

Late that night, however, when her dorm mates were fast asleep, the blonde crept down the hall into her Common Room, unable to handle the crowded dormitory and hoping for some solitude.

She didn't find it.

"Bella?"

Her hushed whisper caused the older girl to jump before turning with a frown. "Cissa? What're you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep," Narcissa murmured, padding across the flagstones to seat herself by her sister. She curled up, trying to warm her bare feet after their exposure to the cold floor.

Bellatrix raised one eyebrow. "Couldn't, or didn't want to? It's too late for you to be up – we've got classes tomorrow, and they start early on. No sleeping in at Hogwarts, Cissy."

"I wasn't planning on it," Narcissa protested, scowling both at the jibe and the address – after all, Bellatrix only ever called her by that particular nickname when she was in one of her _moods_.

Bella snorted. "Go away, Narcissa. I don't feel like having company right now." She punctuated the remark with an imperious wave of her hand, causing the hem of her night-gown to slip.

"What happened there?" Narcissa asked cautiously, staring at a far-too-familiar discoloration on her sister's upper thigh. "What's that bruise from?"

"Accident." The answer was succinct and Cissa didn't believe a word of it.

"Was it really," she drawled, voice rife with sarcasm. The older girl scowled. "It looks like a hand-print," Narcissa continued, "and it's bigger than I could make. Much bigger." She looked up at her sister then, face more serious than usual. "It looks like a man's – Bella, was it Father?"

"So what if it was?"

"Bella, you know that's not right."

Bellatrix sniffed haughtily – Narcissa envied the way she managed to hold on to her queenly demeanor even in her night-clothes. "It's an honour if a Lord finds you worthy of his – attention, Cissa, and our father is very powerful. Of course it's right."

Narcissa shivered in the drafty air, snuggling closer to her sister for warmth. "I suppose that's true," she murmured, believing no such thing. She knew, however, exactly how stubborn Bellatrix could be.

Narcissa woke up later that night in the exact same position, pressed against the older girl's sleeping form. Before going up to bed she brushed her lips across the exposed bruise – she didn't, though, wake Bella up or help her to her dorm.

They were Blacks, after all, and they fended for themselves.

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The third time was a bit different in the sense that Bellatrix was not a victim; that the sky was bright with day – there were many small deviations, if one cared to look.

Twelve-year-old Narcissa was sitting on her sister's bed, hunting for a particular book that she was _certain _she'd packed – owling home for supplies tended to upset their mother terribly – when Bellatrix burst through the door.

She froze when she saw her younger sister in the sixth-year dorm. "What're you doing here?" Bella demanded harshly, quickly losing her happy mood.

Narcissa frowned. "I'm looking for my potions book – I can't find it – and your things are warded against Summoning; you know that. I didn't want to bother Mum – "

"You could have _asked_," the dark-haired witch said, seeming to soften a bit. "I've got it right here; you left it in my room when we were packing. I meant to give it to you days ago. Forgot, I suppose." She reached into her bag for the textbook, handing it to Narcissa before sitting down beside her.

The sisters hadn't exactly grown closer over the years – neither of them was the overly-affectionate type – but nor had they truly distanced themselves. After all, what with Andromeda turning traitor – being a Ravenclaw and dating that _muggleborn_ – there were only two true Black sisters left.

"So what were you so excited about, anyway?"

Bellatrix turned to Narcissa and the blonde gasped when she saw her swollen lips. "I kissed Lestrange."

Narcissa ignored the stabbing sensation in her chest in favour of clarification: "The younger one?"

"No, you prat," Bella said, "the seventh year. Rodolphus."

"Oh." The blonde was quiet for a minute before she grabbed her sister's hand. "D'you – you fancy him, then?"

Bellatrix turned to Narcissa with a strange look, arching one dark eyebrow. "Not really, he's a great lump – but good family. You know Mum'll be pleased."

"I suppose you're right…" the younger girl murmured. "Your lips – are they sore?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do they hurt, from kissing him?" Narcissa sounded almost hysterical now. "Are you bruised?"

Bellatrix nodded once, a sly look in her eyes, before her sister – in an act far more desperate than befitted her station – scrambled forward and crushed their lips together, with such strength that Bella tasted blood.

She kissed back.

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The fourth time it happened was the day before Narcissa's seventh year began, and the girls lay together in her grey silk sheets.

"Bella," Narcissa breathed, running one finger over her sister's pale arm, "you aren't bruised anymore."

Bellatrix nodded complacently. "Of course not, now that he's dead – miserable old coot." Their father had passed on the year before.

Shocked at her sister's blunt statement, Narcissa froze before bursting out into laughter. Her giggles only increased as the brunette began tickling her side.

"Stop – stoppit – "

"No." Bella's smile grew steadily more malicious as her fingers danced across smooth skin, enjoying the way her sister was a _victim_, _helpless_, _writhing in pain_ –

"Bella _stop_!" Narcissa's shriek, far more frantic than it had been moments before, startled the older girl into stillness.

"Sorry," she said diffidently, not sorry at all.

"It's all right."

Under her sister's watchful gaze, Bellatrix slowly sat up, pulling her blouse away from her body. "You know," she commented, "I think I'm a bit warm." She jabbed her wand towards herself, causing the shirt to disappear with a flash.

Narcissa's eyes widened. "You have a – tattoo?" Bella glanced down at her left breast, where the expanse of white was sullied by a large black sketch.

"Yes."

The blonde stared at the drawing for a moment, seeing the familiar shield, before smiling and saying, "Never thought you believed that wholly in our family name, Bella."

Bellatrix smirked, running one hand over the crest forever inked into her. "Sable, a chevron between two mullets in chief and a sword in base, argent."

"So," Narcissa asked curiously, head cocked to one side, "is it a glamour?" She doubted it, because her sister was perhaps the one pureblood who refused to wear the metaphorical mask. Her physical form – and actions – had always been the very embodiment of her soul.

"No – you know how I detest those – I inked it with a potion Strife made me last year."

"Clypso?"

Bellatrix frowned for a moment before nodding. "Yes – the fifth-year. I managed to… _convince_… him that it would be best for all if he put those potions skills to good use, rather than taking Sluggy up the arse."

The younger girl stared at her sister for a moment; apparently, though, she had learnt her lesson and managed to cease any laughter before it burst out. "You know, Trixie, it's times like this I wonder how you got into Slytherin at all," she said coolly. "Extortion is definitely more of a Gryffindor plan."

Bellatrix shot her a pithy glare and Narcissa smirked before continuing. "Though I suppose your family name and – ah, pernicious – nature make up for any brashness."

Before the dark-haired witch could respond, Narcissa moved until the two were nearly touching, leaning down to press her lips to the mark.

"Perhaps you're right," Bellatrix murmured, watching as her younger sister worshiped the crest inscribed on her skin with near-religious devotion. "Perhaps you're right."

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The fifth time it happened was the night before a wedding.

"You're getting married tomorrow," Narcissa said softly, trying to ignore the burning feeling deep within her. She understood that her sister had no alternative – not if she didn't want to end up like Andromeda or worse.

Inter-family marriages may have been encouraged, but a relationship between _siblings_ would be treated with the utmost disdain – and the perpetrators would be disowned. It was an unspoken fact in the family.

"Yes, I am." Bellatrix closed her heavy-lidded eyes and sighed – whether from pleasure or pain it was impossible to tell. She had always been so passionate about both the good, and the bad.

What seemed like hours passed in unbroken silence, until apropos of nothing the dark-haired witch sat up in the bed she should never have lain in – it was, after all, property of her sister's. It was not done.

They did not care.

"Bella?"

"I got another one done, Ciss," she said, face expressionless. "Would you like to see?"

Narcissa would have nodded eagerly were it not for her dread of being looked down upon for behaving in a less than Slytherin fashion – instead, she schooled her features into a politely interested mask. "Certainly, if you'd like that."

Her sister smiled, a fierce expression that only enhanced her wild mien. With a muttered spell she was unclothed, angling herself so that the side of her torso was exposed.

Narcissa leaned forward to examine the newest inking more closely. "Is that… French?" she murmured, fingers trailing lightly over the skin. She secretly reveled in every twitch and shudder caused by her touch.

"Yes." Even gasping for breath, Bellatrix refused to be anything but composed. "Can you read it – or d'you need me to do it for you? Have years of lessons gone to waste?"

Ignoring her sister's mocking tone, Narcissa read, "La fleur purs étrangle ceux du sang sale.**" She let out a laugh that was more derisive than amused. "Quaint, Bella. Very charming.

The older woman allowed herself a broad smile. "Yes, I thought so too – "

Her words stopped abruptly as lips descended on the newest ink, sucking, nipping, stroking…

"Cissa – stop!"

The blonde stopped abruptly, looking up at her sister with a perfectly crafted expression of hurt. "You've been marked – I kiss the marks. We must follow our tradition, Bella."

"Narcissa." For the first time Bellatrix allowed a hint of a softer emotion onto her face as she knelt to grasp her sister's hands. "Cissa. I've got gyves on my hands now, shackles that will be magically sealed by this time tomorrow. This can't – this can't go on."

Narcissa pulled away ever so slightly, suddenly looking every bit the untouchable porcelain doll. She had been playing the role for so long that assuming it was second nature to her. "Well, I'd best be going, then."

She was not a Slytherin by virtue of her family name alone, after all.

Her words did the trick and within seconds Narcissa found herself in a fervent embrace, cool lips pressed eagerly to her own.

The younger girl gazed up into the dark eyes of her sister, whispering, "Take me."

She did.

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The sixth time it happened everything had changed.

Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy met each other in an alley and after the initial greeting both Apparated to their childhood home – it was the only place where conversations would remain private. Spies were everywhere in these times.

"Bellatrix."

"Narcissa."

Narcissa waged an internal war before sighing, unable to quench her curiosity. "Did you join, then?" Lucius had, after all, and he wasn't half as devoted as her sister. For not the first time she cursed the politics that had kept them apart for the past few years.

"Oh, yes," Bellatrix said. There was a look in her eyes – eager, _maniacal_, almost – that Narcissa was not pleased to see. That should not be inspired by anything but herself.

"Let's see it, then."

After the casting of several privacy wards – had she always been so cautious? – the dark-haired witch drew up her sleeve to reveal a darkened blotch of skin. For a moment Narcissa was transported to the drawing room upstairs, remembering what it had been like to first see that bruise – no.

This was no bruise. This mark was an ink-black symbol of servitude; its very aura pulsed with magic. This mark was deadly in its own right.

"I've come so far," Bellatrix breathed, and Narcissa knew that she, too, was remembering the childhood angst.

Without a word, Narcissa bent and pressed her lips to the mark, ready to perform the ritual they'd done oft throughout the years –

_Smack_.

"Bella!" the blonde cried, one hand pressed to her stinging cheek. "Why – "

Her sister's eyes shone with an ardent light as she responded. "I'm sorry, Cissa – but you dared to touch the Dark Lord's mark! I could not allow you to sully it!"

The refusal, more than any carefully-worded good-bye, told Narcissa everything. She lifted one hand to examine her impeccable nails while saying, "Well, I guess this is good-bye, then, Bella."

The dark-haired witch nodded and Narcissa made to turn away. Halfway to the door she paused and called, "Bellatrix."

"Yes?" She had not yet looked up from her newest mark – the most recent stain on a once-spotless canvas – presumably checking it for damage.

"Do you – " The younger woman coughed and changed her question after a moment's thought. "_Did_ you ever love me?"

Bellatrix looked up then, a peculiar blend of pity and humour in her eyes. "Why, Cissa…" she drawled, "of course not."

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* 'Chaise longue' is the correct term, though it has been so widely mispronounced in the US that many people now know it as 'chaise lounge'.

** Rough translation: 'The pure flower strangles those of dirty blood'; a play on Umbridge's pamphlets in the seventh book._  
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I would greatly appreciate reviews.


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